"Why do you speak of yourself like that, Uncle Guy?" she said at length reproachfully. "Did anyone ever love you the less because—because of that? Didn't your mother love you? I know she did, for Mrs. Price told me you were always her favourite child. And grandfather—why, if he didn't love you, he wouldn't trouble because you keep yourself shut up here; and he does trouble about it, Uncle Guy, and so does Aunt Mary. Molly was telling me only this morning that you used to go to the Vicarage when your mother was alive, and you never go now—and they're all so fond of you, too! I think it's very unkind of you not to try to make them all happier. Don't you think grandfather must be dreadfully lonely, sometimes? I do—and oh, I do feel sorry for him!"
"And aren't you sorry for me?"
"Yes, indeed, I am, when you're ill and suffering."
"You think me selfish, I perceive."
"I—I don't think you're very—kind," she confessed; "perhaps I ought not to say so, but—"
"Oh, I like to hear the truth, even if it is unflattering. Say on!"
"Now you're angry, I'm afraid," she said deprecatingly.
"No," he answered, and there was a slight smile on his lips, though the expression of his face was grave; "I will reflect, at leisure, on the lecture you have seen fit to give me, Felicia; it is a subject which requires some consideration."